


Thread Gently, Would You

by AlluringMary



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Lies, One-Sided Relationship, Only main pairing is at the forefront, Past Infidelity, Post-Break Up, Reader-Insert, trying to make it work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: “This here's Isaac, his mother's just... Listen, would you mind the boy a moment?” He runs a quick hand over the child's unkempt blond hair before cupping a gloved hand around the back of his head. The kid in question sniffs loudly, keeps his eyes lowered. There's grime all over his face--honestly you've seen better cared for street rats in the slums of St Denis.One night, Arthur shows up at your door, a child in tow.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/Arthur Morgan, Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Arthur Morgan/Mary Gillis Linton (Implied), Arthur Morgan/Reader, John Marston/Reader (Past)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Thread Gently, Would You

“This here's Isaac, his mother's just... Listen, would you mind the boy a moment?” He runs a quick hand over the child's unkempt blond hair before cupping a gloved hand around the back of his head. The kid in question sniffs loudly, keeps his eyes lowered. There's grime all over his face--honestly you've seen better cared for street rats in the slums of St Denis.

You slide your arms in the vest you've thrown over your nightgown in your haste to get out the door. The weak glow from your lantern cast just enough light for you to determine the two individuals are much worse for wear. The combination of Arthur's blood-soaked front and both his and the kid's gloomy demeanor must be the most pathetic sight you've ever seen. But not even for Arthur Morgan would you be complicit in whatever is happening here.

“This one of Strauss' little debt collections?” You almost sneer, only reigning your disgust in for the boy's sake.

Arthur tenses at the remark and presses again, “Isaac's my boy.” Startled, your lips part in a small o. Is it Mary's, you want to ask but he keeps going, “You'll only have to watch him a few hours, I'll be quick. I... I gotta give his mother a proper burial.”

Dear God. “Sure thing... My goodness, Arthur, should have started with that.” You turn your attention back to the boy, holding out a hand he snaps in his with far too much strength for his skinny frame. “C'mon sweetheart, let's get you cleaned up.”

“Pa?” Isaac tugs at your hand for you to stop pulling him inside, he reaches for Arthur, successfully snags his pants' leg. The outlaw alternates between staring open mouthed at you and his child. The little kid's voice trembles when he says in a small tight voice, “You leavin' again?”

Distress flares in Arthur's eyes and with much more gentleness than you'd think someone of his ilk should be able to muster, his hand settles on the child's. He holds it in his and kneels to get to Isaac's eye level. “I'll be back soon,” He placates softly, he runs a gloved pal over the boy's cheek. “Now you stay here, alright? She's a friend, you listen to what she says, and she'll get somethin' in you.”

Arthur leaves with little fanfare, only stomping quickly to Boedicia in the dark. Meanwhile, you usher the kid inside the living room, lighting candles as you go. The room soon basks in a warm candlelight glow and it takes a herculean effort on your part not to grimace at the child's appearance.

His knobbly knees are littered in bruises and dark patches of dirt, the clothes covering his frame are tainted and torn in places and his face, where grime once reigned, is bisected from his hairline to his chin by a large blood swipe--a smear from Arthur's glove.

For a moment, up until the match runs short under the fire and the flame catches your finger, you're stuck still in front of the candle. The kid, bless his soul, stares. Just stares. He can't be more than seven, maybe six--but he's so small.

Issac grasps at you whenever he can, touch starved as he is even while you encourage him out of his soiled clothes. He looks like a wild animal, staring up at you with wide, betrayed eyes when you go outside to pump some fresh water for his bath. Though Arthur spared you the grisly details before he left, your mind races with morbid thoughts. What did he see, how much time did he spend alone? Your heart clenches in your chest at the thought of what he must have endured before he'd been found.

The child hardly speaks, though and settles quickly when you begin washing him off. When you run a wet washcloth over his face, the boy asks softly, “Is Pa really comin' back?”

You work the soap into a lather in the cloth, rubbing it into his arms and neck. The poor kid shivers, looking more tired than before with his hair slicked from the water and drawn away from his red eyes and wan cheeks. “'course he is, dearie. He'll be back, your father just has some things to finish up. But he always comes back.”

After the quick bath, he stays glued to your side, only letting go of you when you seat him at the table. Once seated in front of a bowl of reheated stew, Issac all but devours it and the salted venison you offer him. He rips into it with almost painful little noises, sounding much like a wolf tearing at its prey.

“Eat slow now, don't choke.” The brown eyes that snap back to you are blown wide, but the boy obeys. Despite the meat laid on the plate before him, he still eyes greedily the apple you cut in pieces for him. You're sure it would take more than an army to come in between the poor boy and the food he scarfs down.

While he eats, you seek his father's features on his face. You can see Arthur's broad nose in the little one's, just like his sheepish, embarrassed smile--it's easy to imagine it draw itself on the child's face. He didn't inherit his sire's eyes, instead has dark brown eyes--most likely his mother's.

You're tired yourself, ready to slip back into bed and chalk this night up as a bad dream. But the boy needs you. You're pulled from any shut-eye while he clings to you, and sniffs and whimpers in his sleep. One time, he startles awake, mumbles in your collar, “Am I gonna stay here?”

Abigail's vowed to try her best with the little life inside of her, bless her heart, but you'd never wish that wandering, vagrant-like life on any child. Still, you feel ready to slap yourself when you answer, “That's something your father will have to decide, Isaac.”

Half-lulled back to sleep, Issac asks in a small voice, “Will Pa be here?”

“I don't know, kid. Just sleep for now.”

“Will you be here?”

“Of course, dearie.”

You're pathetic, holding onto that man and anything revolving around him no matter the cost.

  
///

  
Arthur comes back when the kid's been laid under your covers and is fast asleep. The candles are half-burnt, wax dripping heavily along their sides. The door opens with a small creak, and the dried brown blood on Arthur's shirt is the first thing you see.

“He's asleep,” You say while he scans the space, jutting his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Took a while, but he's out like a light.”

The front door closes with hardly a pip and for a moment, Arthur simply stands there, silent and awkward. The silence drags on, at some point interrupted by the quiet jingling of Arthur's spurs and the drag of the wooden chair against the floor as he circles around you to sit at the table. In the low light, you catch sight of dried flecks of blood on the dark leather of his gloves.

Before he can speak up, you gesture to his clothing. “Undress, I'll get you some of your things.”

Arthur almost declines, you can see the oncoming refusal in his tense shoulders and furrowed brow. But all at once, the outlaw deflates, gets up and starts tearing at his gloves.

You open the door to the bedroom carefully, ensuring you don't wake the sleeping child and in the dark, blindly search through your wardrobe for the rougher fabric of his clothes. They've been here for months now, you'd hardly expected to see him so soon, if ever again but hadn't been able to get rid of them.

The sound of disturbed water echoes in the small house, so does the rough sound of the rag wiping off his skin. By the time you get back, Arthur's gun belt and satchel lay on the table. He's dropped his upper clothing in a heap by the basin and the water inside has turned a redder tint than before. His suspenders hang loosely along his thighs, jostling with his movements as he blindly swipes at the skin of his back.

A few months prior, hell even a few weeks, you'd have felt a heat garner inside of you and ogled your share but now, only a quiet, burning anger flares inside your chest. You feel it spread from your heart to the tips of your fingers, curling on your tongue.

You put the clothes on the table, collecting the dirtied ones with hesitant fingers. The blood doesn't leech off the cloth, doesn't collect on your skin, it's turned a sick brown tone, an old kind of blood that crumples in tiny flecks. Mutely you dunk it in the still, soapy water of the sink along with his son's clothes.

The blood, was it the mother's? Dear God, he had a child.  
A child. A child, about six years of age, with previous knowledge of his father--“You leavin' again?”

And he hadn't spoken a word of him. Not to you at least, did Hosea know? He must. You'd never caught sight of pity in the fatherly man's eyes, nor embarrassment in Davey's while on hunting trips. Who knew? For how long? How did they manage to see you hanging off his arm and say nothing?

“How long have you known?” The words are barely over a whisper, basically spoken into your collar but the sound of the rag on his skin pauses.

No matter how Arthur may see himself, he's sharp, quick too. It doesn't surprise you when he answers directly, “All along, I suppose. Ever since his mother told me.”

“When?”

“89... Give or take a few months.”

Isaac's mother, then Mary (or was it before? Who knew with the two of then), then even Abigail. You fit right in, just another pearl in that long string of women.

The water rests calm once more while you hear the shift of dry fabric as he gets dressed. You dump vinegar into the water before you, pouring it onto the bloodstains of the pale blue shirt.

It had never been enough, whatever affection he could muster in between Mary, you, and--apparently--the poor soul whose blood you were washing off. The warm smiles he gave you when you stumbled in camp with a buck slung over your shoulder or the clumsy drunken kisses and whiskey on his tongue on the night after a score had ceased to be enough a long time ago, much before... before even Abigail.

“I wasn't sure if I should tell you... 'Liza and I, we got an agreement. I took care of them, whenever I could I'd visit but I wasn't married to her.”

“Does Mary know?”

“It ain't like that.”

“Of course, nothing about her's just 'like that'.”

He sighs and you wipe your hands off on a nearby cloth. “I couldn't tell you or half the gang woulda known then.”

You snap, far louder than you would have liked, “Don't pull that shit with me, Arthur, I'm not the one having trouble keeping their dick in their pants.”

His voice, usually low and raspy, cracks into a dismissive growl, “This ain't about that. 'Liza's dead and I got a kid to care for--if I'd known you'd turn like that I might have found somethin' else.”

There's no real anger painted on his face, but you can spot the cracks of frustration in his thinned lips. “You might have a second one coming soon, worry about that one too.”

“Abigail's baby isn't mine, for God's sake! You get that through your head. You know as well as I do it's Marston's.”

“I know John, you bastard, he wouldn't have run if that baby was his.”

“That's exactly what he woulda done and you know it!” Arthur turns away from you, exhales loudly, you can see him rub his palm over his mouth, along his jaw. His beard's getting longer, he mustn't have shaved since you last saw him a few weeks ago. “Then again, you always was sweet on him.” He says, hushed.

“...you son of a bitch.” That's always been his go-to, especially when liquored. “John and I, we were kids back then, and you... you went behind my back to fuck that...” Your eyes burn and vision blurs. “Now you come and dump your son here and expect to find me all peart?”

Arthur avoids your gaze, fleeing from the harshness you know he can read on your face. “I'm sorry.”

“Really?” You retort, “Because from where I'm standing, you're doing a nice job proving the opposite.”

He takes a deep breath, as if to brace himself. “What am I supposed to say? 'Course I got regrets and you... you walked out right after Marston, you even know how bad Dutch took to the both of you abandonin' us? I'm tryin' my damn hardest keeping us together.”

“Oh Arthur Morgan, bully for you!”

“An' to think for a moment I forgot how much of a nuisance you are.” He had a familiar look, saddened, one he used to so quickly cover up. However it lingers a second too long and he mutters, “I'll get my boy off your hands.”

“You gone deaf?” You snap when he makes for the hallway, spurs making a ruckus as he goes. “He's sleeping. God knows the poor thing deserves the rest.”

Arthur stops in his tracks, twists around. For a moment, he looks about to object but lowers his head and sighs. You watch as he nears the table, leans on it with his hands. Softer than you'd expected, he asks, “What am I supposed to do then? 'Liza took care of him and I--I helped when I could. I can't take care of the boy alone.”

It's not any of your funeral, is what you try to hammer into your head. But you remember the grip Isaac had on your nightgown, the wild look in his eye when he thought you were leaving him alone, the quiet sadness in his eyes... Combined with Arthur's hushed uncertainty--you want to wipe it all away, trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips and coax it out of his eyes. God knows he doesn't deserve it but you can't help yourself.

It doesn't even surprise you when you speak up, “Leave him with me for a while, I don't want him back at camp.”

“I can't, you know I can't...” Arthur rubs the bridge of his nose, and wipes his glazed eyes with the back of his hand. “The others will sniff you out for sure then.”

“There's not a whole lot of other options, Arthur. I don't suppose Liza had some family that can take him in?”

“None I know of.”

“...leaving him here is the best choice, far as I'm concerned.”

Arthur straightens his back, getting up to his full height. He takes a small step towards you, lifting a hand to his side, almost towards you. “I want Isaac safe, but... I can't have Dutch, or Bill trailin' me here.” The hand at his side reaches for yours, you're half tempted to dodge it but instead embrace the heat of his palm on your knuckles.

“They wouldn't hurt me. They're mad, but I trust them. Time's all I need.” Maybe after Abigail's pregnancy's over with, maybe if the baby's eyes aren't ocean blue and hair as blond as wheat, maybe falling back in won't seem like such a Herculean feat.

Arthur tightens his hand around your own, his skin feels a little clammy from the earlier quick bath, even his shirt's damp from being put on over slightly wet skin. The picture he makes screams of casual days spent lazing at camp, where in the shade of trees you spent hours together, away from prying eyes. He says, “I don't know how often I can come visit, I'll leave money when I can.”

“I, huh,” You will yourself to snap out of it, tearing your eyes away from him. “I'm with a little trader company. Some old fool out of his depth but... I can get by just fine.”

His answering laugh is a low, heavy sound deep from within his chest, “You? Turnin' straight? I've seen it all.”

“Yeah, yeah--” You slap at his chest. “Laugh it off, you bastard. At least I'm not thirsting over the next big score nowadays.”

His laughter dies out bit by bit, leaving in its wake an inquiring look in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I know you don't wanna hear any of it.” His hold on your hand turns to a tighter clasp, keeping you in place when you try to step around him. “You don't trust me either; but Abigail? This ain't my kid she's carryin'. Now I don't know if it's John's or Bill's of even Mac's--but it ain't mine. There's a whole lot of things I should apologize for but that child, it's not one of 'em.”

His hand comes to rest on your collarbone, thumb lightly caressing your cheek. His eyes had turned kinder, gentler but the embers of your anger still crackled with life. There was still the image of Abigail, eyes sparkling with tears and her voice broken while she apologized to you, grasping your hands, quietly flanked by a bare-faced Arthur and John. “Arthur--”

“It's not mine. I promise you, once--”

“You should stay here tonight,” You interrupt, stepping away and doing your best to reason away the hurt in his eyes and the pit in your stomach at the loss of his body heat. “I'll get you a blanket for the couch. Isaac'll expect to see you.”

It takes him a moment to answer, looking out the window through which dim sunbeams are already shining. “It's nearly mornin'.”

“He'll sleep 'til noon if I have anything to say about it.”

“...found him hiding at the neighbor's, both houses had been torn up. He wouldn't say but I think he saw, some of it anyway. It ain't gonna be easy for him.”

Though something dark and mean coils in your gut at the thought of it, your mind blanks on one detail. You eye the sink. “Blood on you was fresh.”

“Bastard lingered near the creek, killed her and some family over a few dollars.”

“Fuck's sake, Arthur.” You stare at him, mouth agape. “You should have told me, I'd have helped you with it.”

He swallows, “Needed you here with him. I still do. If Isaac's gonna stay here a while, I can't have you run off for weeks on end in the mountains on some hunting trip or risk it all at the tables.”

“You said it yourself, I've gone straight. Much as I can anyways. I can take care of him, not forever but long enough to arrange something else.”

“Okay.” Arthur nods. “Managed to hide yourself away after all, we can work somethin' out.” He swipes his thumb into his leather suspenders, snapping them onto his shoulders in quick movement before heading towards the sink where the clothes soak.

This bizarre image of normalcy feels off, you imagine him, Isaac running underfoot, the illusive Liza in your stead, watching onto the domestic sight. While Arthur begins to wring the clothes out, you think.

You love him, no way around it. The knot that's formed inside your chest depends solely on whether he does. You don't believe you haunt his mind in the morning, or linger in his thoughts at night. There's no reason to even think that you feature in the writings in his journal, or your name rolls off his tongue when you aren't near.

There's no reason to when one night, after a row, he'd went to Abigail to lick his wounds.

“I'm sure we can.” You whisper so softly, you doubt he even heard. “We always do.”

**Author's Note:**

> As much as I cried for Arthur and begged Rockstar to retcon RDR1 so my boah could live, I knew that any romance involving him would be a mess--he's already in love.
> 
> But I love him too much not to try.


End file.
